Waiting
by paynesgrey
Summary: Sylar and Peter met each other within a gray middle, but each one had intentions that were both black and white. Sylar x Peter Spoilers.


AN: Warnings/Spoilers - Slash themes, A/U. This fic is set in the virus-universe, assuming Sylar took Claire's powers and she survived him, and assuming Peter stayed and never changed the virus world. Some Season 3 Spoilers, possibly. Thank you to rtwofan for the beta job. This fic was written in celebration of my 100 fics posted to FFnet! Enjoy.

Waiting

Sylar looked up into Peter's face with annoyance. "You're late, you know." He caught Peter's shrug as the empath joined him at the bar. He ordered his drink, avoiding Sylar's glare.

"You do that on purpose," Sylar accused. "You like that I have to wait for you."

"Relax," Peter soothed him. He picked up his drink and took in one heavy shot. He slammed the glass down and met Sylar's dark eyes. Peter smiled warmly at him, which only seemed to add to his sour mood.

"Stop doing that," Sylar said, meaning Peter's empathy reading. It was obvious when he was trying to calm Sylar down with his powers.

"You know," Peter countered, "you could always take it if you wanted it." His smile and eyes challenged Sylar. Sylar turned away shaking his head.

"I don't think I want it. I don't think I want to be like _you_," Sylar whined sharply.

Sylar felt Peter close the gap between them. Peter's knees were rubbing against his inner thigh as the empath turned toward him. His breath was hot against Sylar's cheek. Sylar snapped his head up, meeting Peter's eyes just centimeters from his. Peter cracked a confident smile.

"You're in a bad mood this time," Peter said just above a whisper. Sylar watched as Peter's gaze fell down to his lips.

"I don't know if I want to be here. I'm getting sick of you," Sylar lied.

Peter took the drink from Sylar's hand and shushed him with an unconvinced expression. "I know you better. You're the one who called me."

"You were in Africa. What were you even doing there?" Sylar asked, and he knew he was treading on shaky ground. Peter smirked at him anyway.

"Saving a village from a mudslide. I had help from someone though," Peter answered. Sylar's interest piqued.

"Oh?" He knew what Peter had meant. Peter had met a person with special abilities there. Peter gave him a hard look.

"Don't waste your time. She's dead now, and you wouldn't have wanted her powers. There's no use in them."

"So what can you do now?" Sylar took the drink out of Peter's hand and took the last swig.

"Turn things to stone." Sylar didn't even turn to his gaze. Peter knew he was interested; he was just trying to hide it. Peter smiled and teased anyway. "Still want to figure me out?"

"You don't want to ask me that, Saint Peter," Sylar said, cocking his head toward him. "I might be tempted, especially for some of the powers I was unable to take before this virus killed everyone."

"So why don't you do it?" Peter asked. The conversation was always like this.

"If I take your powers, Peter, you'll die, and then who would I look forward to meeting in this world with a dying population and very little powers to obtain? Who would I have left that is like me and can live as long as I can?"

Peter sat back in silence, studying Sylar for a thick moment. "I know your reason, and it isn't just because you want to see me."

Sylar met his eyes again. Maybe Peter understood. "You've always been clever." Sylar rewarded him with an ominous smile.

"You've always been easy to read," Peter said, and his arm was on Sylar's forearm. "Let's leave this place already."

"Don't you want to keep this banter up? I know it reminds you of someone, even though I'm not her."

Peter glared at Sylar for the first time that evening. Sylar smirked with sick satisfaction.

"I thought we agreed to not bring up Claire," Peter said, his voice tainted with an agonizing edge.

"I never mentioned her name. But don't you think it's unhealthy to not talk about it? She was killed only last year."

Peter's jaw clenched. "What if I don't want to talk about it?" Peter pouted, removing his hand from Sylar's arm.

"You loved her, and they blew her head off," Sylar said bluntly, picking up the fresh drink the bartender put down for him. He took a small sip and continued. "They'll do that to us too, you know. Someday."

"The Company won't find us. There aren't that many left anyway." Peter took his arm again. "I want to get out of here."

Sylar's smile widened. "But I'm not finished with my drink."

"Look, I know what you want from me; so let's get it over with," Peter retorted impatiently.

"If that's how you see it, I don't want you then. We don't have to do this," Sylar said calmly, yet he could sense Peter's temper rising. Peter was being unreasonable at the mere mention of the cheerleader's name. Sylar was over it, so why couldn't Peter?

"I'm going then," Peter snarled, standing up from his stool. He glared down at Sylar who was content to keep drinking.

"Same time again next year?" Sylar said whimsically in a half-goodbye.

Peter bit his lips in fury. Sylar looked up at his serious face and laughed, but before his mirth died down, Peter grabbed his arm again.

Before Sylar could blink Peter had grabbed him through time and space.

--

A whoosh of air began to settle in Sylar's lungs as they teleported to Peter's studio. "You bastard," Sylar spat under his breath as he regained his equilibrium. Peter had him already pushed back against the wall, his face veering toward Sylar's as the empath gripped his jaw.

Peter always tasted like brandy and ash. Every time. Sylar didn't mind it; it was a taste that was quintessentially Peter. His lips were harsh and demanding, bruising through Sylar's tongue and teeth as Peter pushed his demands inside.

A loud smack erupted as their lips broke from each other, and Peter continued to glare – upset with Sylar and with himself for falling for his most predictable tricks.

"You always do that. You always have to make me angry to get you here," he shot at Sylar, his voice still laced with fury. Sylar chuckled darkly at him again.

"I hate your sensitive side. I hate when you waltz in – late as always – looking as if you're going to fix me. That some day I'll stop killing people. I hate that."

Peter shook his head, surprised. "I'm not – I know that I can't change you."

It was Sylar's turn to throw Peter against the wall. He gripped the empath's shirt tightly. Sylar snarled chidingly, "Then act like it. The world is over, Peter. When that virus was set loose, there was nothing left but this."

Peter was silent for a moment. Remembering Sylar's true purpose, he had one thing left to say. "Even after your true intentions for me in the end, convince me that this is what you really want." Peter's voice was half-harsh, half-soft, and his eyes searched Sylar out. "Forget the world. Forget Claire. Besides my powers, what do you really want from me?"

Telekinetically, Peter was flung onto the large bed that made up the meager space of the apartment. Before Peter could react, Sylar was on top of him, dismantling his clothes and then working on Peter's.

Strong yet soft hands trailed up Sylar's arms, and Peter was arching up, drawing him into another demanding kiss. Sylar straddled over him, grinding against his heat, pulling Peter closer by his hair. Peter winced from the pain, and Sylar pushed his palm against the empath's forehead to lead him down.

The sheets were dirty underneath them, probably not cleaned since the last time Sylar was here, indulging in Peter as Sylar indulged him in turn. They met in a gray middle, but each one had intentions that were both black and white.

Sylar wanted to keep him – to one day reap the benefits of all of Peter's powers. He was patient; the world was dying, but new powers were still turning up. Once Peter had absorbed them all, he could take him. Sylar could take him for what he truly wanted of Peter.

And he could take the empath's powers now if he wanted, but why would he want to waste him? What fun would that be if he were living here like this all alone? No, Sylar wasn't done with Peter yet…

The empath groaned as Sylar slid a hot, rough finger inside of him.

For now, Sylar was content with this. He knew the end result.

Peter, on the other hand, was still deluded and heroic, even though he gave Sylar a wide berth. He didn't interfere with Sylar, but the empath's hope to change him still remained. He didn't know if Peter was waiting for something, but he knew Peter was aware of his intentions.

But still Peter did nothing. He did nothing but this.

Their wet skin slid against each other in erratic motions, with a rhythm that was both sporadic and swift. Sweat and blood settled between their lips as one man would bite while the other would lap.

Then, Peter let out a contented sigh as Sylar filled him, slowing his hips and adjusting the size and space of them both. Sylar wrapped and squeezed a hand around Peter's erection, earning another guttural coo from the empath as all irritation disappeared.

Sylar thought it was silly, but he hoped that Peter did not love him. He hoped that Peter was not here for _that_, yet after losing friends and family, lovers and all the people he was fated to save, it was no wonder the empath came to Sylar. There was no one left – and more importantly no more Claire; the plagued world still revolved as nothing happened, and a century later they both lived on as everyone else died.

It was only natural they'd seek each other out.

Peter cried, and Sylar felt him come on his hand. Groaning, his rival was still shaking as he finished, and Sylar brought his hand up where Peter gladly took it, licking him clean of his own obedience as Sylar finished. Sylar gritted his teeth and let go inside of him, earning another soft gasp from Peter. The two of them broke away, falling down next to each other on the bed in an exhausted mess.

Sylar began to catch his breath, peering over at Peter who was still panting and regaining his senses. They did not move in that minute to kiss, hug or cuddle. What happened was done, and the only feeling that existed between their emotions was a girl who they both loved – a girl who was dead.

"I know why you keep doing this, Peter," Sylar said, his breath calm and contained. His voice rang with smugness, as if he new some dark secret. He peered at Peter with arrogance.

"You think you do," Peter said placidly. He looked away from Sylar's piercing gaze. "I'll go now."

"You'll come back, but you know you don't have to," Sylar said, sitting up in the bed. Peter was pulling up his pants over his lean hips. "You know what I'm going to do to you yet you still come back."

"Shut up," Peter hissed. "It doesn't matter. This is all that I can do."

"She told you, didn't she?" Sylar said bluntly. The air couldn't have felt more viscous between them.

Peter didn't answer right away. Instead, he sighed languidly. "Claire had a big heart. She also didn't have the best taste in men." He turned around and shot Sylar a glare, but it did not faze him. He still grinned at Peter like a Cheshire cat.

"Did it ever occur to you that I loved her too?" Sylar caught Peter's face of revulsion, as if such a thing weren't possible. Sylar drove his point further. "She was special. I could never kill her for her powers. She was too good for that, and I always thought that of her."

Peter gave him a challenging stare. "I know, and decades later you two found each other, and she didn't even care that you're a killer. She didn't even care, and somewhere in her loneliness, she thought she wanted to be with you."

"She did," Sylar answered quickly. His smiled remained firm.

"I don't want to talk about this anymore. I'm going to go, but you can stay here if you want," Peter said firmly. There was no hospitality in his intentions; he just had to get away – away from Sylar and Claire's ghost.

"You'll be back," Sylar said, knowing his words rang true. Peter glared at him in silence for a long pause.

"I know what you want from me, and don't think I'll let you get away with it," Peter warned threateningly. Sylar appeared even more amused.

"Yet you'll still come for me again and again. How odd," Sylar countered.

It was apparent that Peter was trying to control his temper. Heat flared at his hands, and Sylar let out a low chuckle. Ted's power did always seem to come out in moments like these.

"You're wrong, Sylar. It's all for her. Everything."

Sylar cocked his head curiously. Peter Petrelli had some strange intentions. He didn't quite know what Peter meant; was he coming to Sylar to change him or as homage to his niece? He wasn't sure, but the mystery only added to his amusement.

"You take care of yourself, Peter," Sylar said as Peter was prepared to leave without saying another word. Peter threw him back another hateful look.

"I better not catch you anywhere near Burma," Peter warned. Sylar grinned, rising from the bed still naked and wet from the moment not fifteen minutes ago.

He lifted his chin confidently. "No worries. I'll be in England for awhile and move down to Italy." Peter didn't trust him, but there was nothing he could really do about it. Sylar was going to do whatever he wanted, and Peter had resolved himself long ago to keep away from his endeavors as long as Sylar didn't follow him.

Sylar supposed it was part of this bizarre annual pact between them, and with each meeting between them, Peter became lenient. Sylar, however, planned to never lose his edge.

Peter began to leave, snorting again in distaste as he turned himself invisible in front of him. Sylar could hear his heartbeat and movement around the room. When Peter reached the front door, Sylar called out to him one last time, low yet enough for Peter to hear.

"See you next year, Peter."

The smug smile remained on Sylar's face long after Peter was gone. Maybe, Sylar thought, he'd see the empath again sooner than that.

END


End file.
